Page 18 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

His chin jerked up. Oh dear, had that sounded like flirting? He began to speak, then he stopped and muttered a curse.

Juno heard it too: footsteps, whistling, and the rattle of china. Then St. Blaise was sauntering in, carrying a tea tray; he must have gone into the kitchen to charm Mrs. Kegworth, rather than gone out the front door as she’d hoped. He dumped the tray on the table and sprawled in a chair. Bother and blast, Juno thought. As entertaining as St. Blaise was, she desperately wanted to hear what Leo wished to say.

But the moment had passed.

Without looking at her, Leo crossed the room and sank down onto the settee. Impulse had her leaning over behind him to place her lips close to his ear.

“I shall winkle your secrets out of you,” she whispered.

He turned; she froze. Their faces were suddenly very close. Close enough for her to see the fine hairs of his brows, the dark-blue rim around his irises, the smoothness of his cheek and jaw. Close enough to catch a faint scent like wood shavings and citrus groves.

Close enough that she could press her lips to that cheek and run her fingers through his hair.

Her breath snagged in her chest, where it fluttered helplessly. Then the fluttering spread down, down through her body, to where it fluttered persistently, right where a fluttering ought not to flutter.

At least, not when she was serving tea.

She stumbled away and busied herself with setting out the tea things, fumbling the cups with unusually clumsy hands.

“I thought you’d gone, St. Blaise,” Leo said pointedly. “Please don’t feel constrained to stay on my account.”

St. Blaise nestled back in his chair. “But I am parched after my exertions. You would not send me away without some nice restorative tea.”

The rising steam from the tea danced before Juno’s eyes. Her mind raced. Leo had called twice in two days. He wished to be alone with her, to discuss something privately. He had been stealing glances at her last night. He disliked his brother flirting with her.

And now everything she said felt like flirting too.

She glanced up to catch St. Blaise’s gaze volleying back and forth between them.

Attraction was a curious beast. St. Blaise was, objectively, the more handsome of the two. Not that Leo was plain by any standard, but St. Blaise was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, all chiseled cheekbones and sultry pout. And she had seen all of him while he was modeling, save what the loincloth covered. Yet it was Leo in shirtsleeves who made her insides flutter. Possibly because that glimpse was the most she had ever seen of him, the most she could ever hope to see.

“How was the ball last night?” she asked brightly, as she handed Leo his tea, taking great care not to let their fingers touch. “Livia sent me a note this morning, saying you were the only person whose conversation did not make her want to drown herself in the ratafia, so I must thank you for saving her life.”

“Happy to serve. Death by ratafia sounds gruesome indeed.”

“And did you have any delightful conversations, Polly?” St. Blaise asked, as Juno handed him a cup. “A sweet tête-à-tête on the balcony, perhaps? A heart-stopping waltz? Lingering looks over supper?”

Again Leo’s gaze briefly met hers before sliding away. “Only some idiots seeking to provoke me to anger as part of a stupid game.” He snorted softly. “They are not very good at it.”

“Of course not,” Juno said, pouring her tea. “You are always so in control.”

“The tedious part is that they haven’t the mettle to risk actually offending me. So instead I get mealy-mouthed insults and smug inquiries into why I dress so prettily.”

“We all know why you dress so prettily: because you can.”

“Yes. And because I am exceedingly good at it.” A self-mocking smile drifted over his face. “But I concede they have a certain evil genius. As dearly as I would love to knock their heads together, doing so would win their game for them and make them rich.”

“Rich?” St. Blaise perked up. “For making you angry? I might excel at this game.”

“Fifty pounds if I yell, two hundred for violence, five hundred if I challenge someone to a duel.”

“Five hundred pounds,” Juno repeated wistfully. “You could challenge me to a duel.”

“I could, but then I’d have to shoot you, which would ruin your dress, and you know how I feel about crimes against fabric.” Then he scowled at her gown: long sleeves, high neckline, loose fit, dull print. “What am I saying? That dressisa crime against fabric.”

Delighted, she laughed. “Then my dress could win the bet, if you call it out for offending your eyes. Although if you do mean to shoot my gown, please be so kind as to warn me first, so I can take it off.”

St. Blaise made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Leo’s gaze raked down her length, then he hastily looked away.

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